Kids showered with presence

We are home again. Bread is rising in the kitchen. No little hands helped with the kneading. Nobody pretended to make pizza as they tossed the dough into the air. Nobody insisted that the bread be in the shape of a beaver. Nobody dropped it on the floor.
I enjoy making bread. It is something I learned to do in high school in a class that was basically home economics for nerds. It was not my best subject and I was convinced the teacher hated me. But she did introduce me to baking, and for that, I am grateful.
Still, making bread by myself is so much different than making bread with small children. With the kids, it is all about the process. There is competition at every step. Who gets to add the ingredients? Who gets to stir? Whose portion is bigger? Who can help me shape it into a beaver? I wonder why Jacob has this obsession with beavers when he is usually obsessed with sharks.
When I make bread at home, the end result is as important as the process. After baking two loaves of French bread in Texas, one baked loaf was quickly eaten even though it was not in the shape of a beaver. The other one was devoured in secret that night. I had forgotten the frequent reminders that their dog “counter surfed” when nobody was looking. All that was left in the morning was a plastic bag with tooth-shaped punctures. Oops.
I expect today’s loaves will last longer. Plus, I don’t have to mop as much excess flour off of the floor, nor do I need to wash three pairs of sticky hands.
Life at home is different than when we visit the grands. At home, I can find things more easily. I know what ingredients I have on hand and where they are kept. Gracie, our cat, stays off the counters. Cooking is not a group experience. Sleeping is also different as no little people invade in the middle of the night. Nobody holds up a superhero costume with the demand to, “put this on me!” Nobody hands me carrots to feed to the horses. Nobody wants to go down to the creek to float their Ivory soap boats.
I am already missing little hands and big hugs. The snow that greeted us on our way home is slowly melting. I feel the pull to visit my mother, just to reassure myself that she really is doing as well as can be expected. I don’t want to brave the country roads, nor do I want to spend another minute in the car. The two-day trip home was quite enough car time for me. A phone call tells me that there are no new disasters demanding my attention. I opt to stay home and bake bread.
As I shape the puffy dough into loaves, I think about how different today is from last week. It is not just the melting snow that makes me grateful that we missed the last snowstorm that enveloped our town. It is the memories we created during our visit.
We don’t shower the children with presents, rather we shower them with presence. Simply being there when they wake up is far more important than any toy we could buy.
There is something priceless in rocking a child to sleep or cuddling with a child who is all arms and legs and too big to be cuddled. Listening to my son-in-law sing, “You are my sunshine,” to his son is far more precious than any store-bought gift they could buy for us. Seeing the joy in my daughter’s face when her husband brings home yet another Santa Claus to add to her collection makes my heart smile. Watching them deal effortlessly with the chaos that naturally comes with living with little people leaves me amazed.
Each of them is unique. Each has his or her own personality. Each one makes life on earth better. When the grey days of winter set in, all I have to do is remember the happiness I felt while I was in the foreign land of Texas. I love being home, sleeping in my own bed. But I still miss the mess of baking bread with little kids.

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